you and me and the ocean
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: the ocean sang her song of mourning.


Bishamon grieved selfishly.

Her shinki had been lost, their cries for mercy echoing in every aching space of her body. They were gone. She was left, the permanence of her children's names ripped from her. In her hollows, nothing lived but shadow and whisper. She had never been alone before.

She had never been alone like this.

Between her ribs, where her heart had once been, there was only night.

"Kazuma," she said. She clung to it, this last name. "Kazuma."

He appeared beside her. His hands fidgeted anxiously inside each other, as though he wanted nothing more than to do something, to fix something, but wasn't sure where to start.

"Yes, my lady."

Bishamon stared up at him. She was only a selfish, grieving mother, and her heart was as silent as the ocean.

"Kazuma," she said. "Stay here. Talk to me."

He settled himself next to her bed. The noises he produced, simply by living—breath, pulse, the brush of his fingers against each other—softened the edges of the silence within her.

"What do you want me to talk about, Bishamon-sama?" he asked nervously.

The sound of Kazuma pronouncing her formal name sent a wave of grief through her gut.

"Don't call me that," she said, sharp as a whip. She sat up from the bed to face him, her eyes boring into his. "Never call me that."

Kazuma flinched, stung by the ferocity in her voice, which she instantly softened. She might have been tempted to lift a hand up to touch his face, to smooth out the creases between his eyebrows. But she did not.

"Not you," she murmured. "You don't call me that."

She had loved her shinki. They had called her _"our lady,"_ and _"our mistress."_

Once, Kazuma had called her his lady, his mistress.

They were past formalities.

"Viina," Kazuma said quietly. He was still training himself to speak to her so without blushing, and she found his failure to do so endearing.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

Bishamon chewed her lip, then silently lay back on the bed.

"I do not know," she said.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"No."

"I will make you some food."

He got up from beside her bed, and Bishamon cried out. She clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the sound escaped her. Kazuma froze, and seconds later, a look of terrified guilt contorted his features.

"Viina—I'm so sorry—did I—?"

Quickly she shook her head. He had not stung her. He had only tried to leave.

"Stay," she murmured, one hand still covering her mouth. Kazuma's face swam in front of her eyes.

"Stay here," she pleaded. "I am not hungry. Please…just stay with me."

He sat down again, and in the dim light she could see his hands pressed together tightly, the knuckles paper-white through his skin. She blinked once, and he disappeared into the waves.

 _Alone._

"Kazuma, come closer," she said.

The command had no weight behind it, but he scooted forward a few millimeters. Bishamon felt his reluctance echoed in her bones, and it made her sick.

How he must hate being close to her. How he must hate her weakness, and her grief, and her selfishness. She couldn't even issue an order without the words falling flat and empty.

Bishamon turned on her side so she could face him. Reaching out with one hand, she pried his fingers apart and slid her hand between both of his.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Kazuma."

Although he stayed very still, he did not pull away. His hands around hers were warm and dry, his body heat softening the ice of her fingers.

By comparison, the rest of her body was unbearably cold. Tremors began radiating through her limbs, her teeth chattering loudly enough for him to hear.

"You're not well at all," Kazuma said in panic. "I should get—I should…"

But there was no one to fetch. No one to heal her. No one to hurt with her. No one with her. No one. No one. No one. No one. The ocean sang her song of mourning.

Bishamon was lifted, and she felt that her body was a seashell, rocked by a great, dark sea. It would be pleasant to drown.

But the ocean was empty and cold, and she rested against something firm and warm. The ocean had no heart, but she heard a pulse beneath her ear.

"Don't leave me," he whispered. "Viina, don't go. I'm sorry.

Kazuma was holding her. The salt she smelled was on his skin, in sweat, and on her face, in tears. She dreamed of oceans because he rocked her, cradling her against his chest. He sobbed once, and when he saw her eyes focus on him again, he gave an apologetic hiccup.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry they're gone, Viina. I'm sorry it's just me."

She smiled—a movement so unfamiliar that the muscles of her mouth complained against it.

"It's just you and me, Kazuma," she murmured affectionately. "And the ocean."

The confusion in his eyes was brief, chased away by a blush as she nuzzled her nose into his chest. She had been so long untouched, so long unworthy of physical comfort, of intimacy. She didn't deserve to be held.

But she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it.

"Will you stay?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied instantly.

 _Not like that._

"Will you stay with me, here?" Bishamon asked again. She reached up, fastening her arms around his neck and burying her head in his shoulder. He smelled sweet and earthy, like a kitchen garden. He smelled alive.

"Here? In—in your…"

"Yes."

He hesitated for a long ten seconds. From the coiling snakes in her own stomach, Bishamon could tell his was a battle of nerves, and not disgust. Slowly, he slid down into her bed to lie next to her.

She touched him. His muscles were stiff, his entire body a tense collection of anxieties that, however momentarily, distracted her from the vast, silent ocean inside her.

"It is permissible to breathe, Kazuma," she said. He choked out a humorless laugh.

Bishamon took shelter in silence for a few minutes. She thought it would be comforting to have him next to her, but he barricaded himself behind a wall of respect.

She did not want respect. She wanted love.

She deserved neither.

After several minutes passed in silence, Kazuma turned his face toward her, but she didn't see him. She stared past him into the shadows, her eyes unfocused.

The ocean was calling.

"Viina," Kazuma whispered. She kept looking past him. A diamond hung at the corner of her half-lidded eye, trembling.

"Viina," Kazuma tried again, louder. Still nothing.

He turned on his side, dragging her fragile body into his. She was cold and dry, nothing but a skeleton of salt in his arms. Kazuma pulled her head into the crook of his neck, feeling the stillness of her long eyelashes against his skin.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry I'm not the rest of them. I'm sorry I can't be better for you. I'm sorry, Viina. I'm sorry, I'm trying so hard."

He gasped as one of her arms snaked around him, gripping sharply the back of his yukata. Her nails bit him as she clung.

"Viina," he whispered to her. She gave a small shudder in response. "I'm sorry I'm no good. Please stay here. Please…don't go somewhere I can't follow."

His chin rested on the top of her head, his arms tangled in her long, moonlight hair. She was so insubstantial in his arms that it was difficult to believe in her intense presence, in her warm affection, in her warlike spirit.

She was so small, and so hurt. It wasn't hard to imagine her slipping into the darkness without him.

"I found you in the sea," Bishamon whispered after many minutes of her frozen skin growing steadily warmer.

"I remember," Kazuma said.

Nothing was said for a long time. Suddenly she took a deep breath, then let out a tiny ghost of air. Kazuma recognized this as hesitation.

"What is it, Viina?" He asked, his lips brushing her cool forehead.

"It's so dark in the ocean," she said. Her voice was soft and uncertain. "It would be awful to drown."

In the pit of his chest, Kazuma's heart caught. The ocean was very dark, especially when you had forgotten the taste of air. It was the embrace of a cold, massive, merciless creature. It was your lungs collapsing, crystallizing. It was the burning in your throat, the salt in your stomach.

It certainly would be awful to drown.

Bishamon could say no more to him. As long as she and Kazuma kept their shared language of in-betweens and unspokens, she could say no more.

Moreover, as long as she knew through his life—through his death—exactly how it felt to drown, she could say no more.

But now, against her forehead, Kazuma's breath was warm. He held her so close she could hear the blood under his skin. His body spoke life to her. And so even though this boy—this last of her strong, beautiful family—was faulty, and timid, and long, long dead, she held him close.

She would find the edge of the ocean. She would not be alone.

She held him tighter, and he held back.


End file.
